Yet she remained drooping over the table. Drooping eyelids, drooping arms and legs. The pink check of the other was still on the table. I quickly opened this manuscript, We , and with its pages I covered the check, trying to hide it from myself, rather than from O- .

“See, here, I am still busy writing. Already 101 pages! Something quite unexpected comes out in this writing.”

In a voice, in a shadow of a voice, “And do you remember⁠ ⁠… how the other day I⁠ ⁠… on the seventh page⁠ ⁠… and it dropped.⁠ ⁠…”

The tiny blue saucers filled to the borders; silently and rapidly the tears ran down her cheeks. And suddenly, like the dropping of the tears⁠—rushing forth⁠—words: